Visiting Rights
by abernaith
Summary: Right after the events of Making Money, Vetinari invites Moist to dinner and arranges a pleasant reunion with a Mr. Fusspot.


**Visiting Rights**

Author: abernaith

Fandom: Discworld (Spoilers for _Making Money_)

Pairing: Havelock Vetinari / Moist von Lipwig (only if you squint, really)

Rating: PG

Summary: Right after the events of _Making Money_, Vetinari invites Moist to dinner and arranges a pleasant reunion with a Mr. Fusspot.

Notes: Comments would be nice, especially to tell me if there are any inaccuracies in portrayal of characters herein. BTW, insert official disclaimer here: i.e., Discworld and all its beloved characters belong to Terry Pratchett and I don't own a single iota of it. I'm just a fan!**  
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It was just a dinner invitation. Moist von Lipwig stared at the single sheet of smooth, eggshell-colored parchment like it was a coiled viper for a good five minutes before picking it up again and pondering the simple words in a tidy, elegant script that he supposed Lord Vetinari had jotted himself this afternoon before sending it to the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork.

'I suppose it's no harm,' he thought, fully aware that such an idea belonged to a fool, and was as harmless as similar foolish ideas went, such as 'It was only the one bit I et' and 'Oh, and what does this button do?'

He dearly wished for Spike's advice, or her presence, more preferrably. Miss Dearheart or, as it was widely known nowadays, the soon-to-be-Mrs. von Lipwig, was currently in an expedition to Genua at the behest of the Golem Trust. Her latest correspondence via clacks suggested that she would be further detained for an entire forthnight at the very least, pushing back the already much-postponed wedding date they had previously agreed upon. Personally, Moist thought that it would be lucky indeed and probably owing to the intervention of no less than Miss Dearheart's mother herself, if they would be exchanging vows before Hogswatch.

'_When_', Moist muttered to himself. He ought to think in terms of _when_. He didn't count himself an outright sod for the slips in grammar for, as far as he was concerned, it was the mildest stroke of wedding jitters a man could experience. There was no doubt that there could only be one lady in his life, if for the sole reason that such a life that he always found himself leading was, as it were, "hanging by the thumbs and forefingers off a cliff's edge". Such dangers, Spike was fond of telling him, he drew to himself unconsciously. To which, Moist's mouth took the liberty of running ahead of him by replying, "But of course, Danger is my Middle Name."

Looking at the Patrician's simple and maddeningly inscrutable invitation, Moist couldn't help but succumb to the fact that he had to eat his words. He had then to stop himself from bursting out into mad laughter, as he realized the terribly bad pun he just thought up, and the mirth died as a choke in his throat.

"What Was That, Mr. Lipswig?" rumbled Gladys from her desk. She was presently re-shuffling files from her Inbox to her Outbox with superb efficiency, to which Moist owed at least 50 of the Royal Bank's current performance rating, and had halted her work to look up at him with the bright red glow of a golem's very inquistive, and rather feminine eyes. And was that an appealing shade of eyeshadow that softened the golem fire to a rather seductive red-violet tint?

"Yes, It Is, Mr. Lipwig. Ochre Passion. Miss Susan Of Counter Six Highly Recommended It."

"Oh," went Moist. He didn't realize he had spoken his thought aloud.

"I Am Pleased You Noticed, Sir," continued Gladys, with a tone that hinted slightly towards coy flirtation. For a man of the world such as Moist von Lipwig, it was nothing to be surprised at. Certainly, this had not been the first time Gladys had conducted herself in such a manner. But then, he did wonder at her persistence. Didn't Spike have a little chat with her...it...Gladys some time ago?

"And There Will Be A Coach Coming By Promptly At Seven, To Pick You Up," she said.

"Oh?" said Moist. It occured to him that he was getting too attached to the monosyllable. For someone who bent words to his will, he was doing a rather poor job of keeping up his reputation.

"Yes, Mr. Lipwig. The Man Who Came By To Drop The Letter You Are Holding Said So."

With the way Gladys said it, it couldn't sound anything but ominous. Moist couldn't blame her, as well could he blame a tuning fork for sounding like nothing other than a tuning fork. He looked up at the clock and noted the lateness of the hour. "I suppose I should be getting ready then. Will you be all right by yourself, my dear?"

The sudden sharp gaze seared into Moist's back, so that he fortunately missed half the sting of the reply, "I Couldn't Possibly Imagine Why Not." He didn't miss the hint, though he let the words slide.

In the course of a few months, Gladys had gone from a servant bent on pleasing its masters to a full-fledged Feminist, some new movement or other that Spike had tried to explain to him over dinner one time that almost ended in disaster and an impaled foot on Moist's part. Fortunately, disaster was abated, and the foot was saved, thank Anoia...for now.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Moist found time for a quick bath, a shave, and a few minutes to pick the lint off his second-best dinner jacket. His best was, of course, the gold one, complete with trim and tack that would make any mother proud (and any old warhorse even prouder). But Moist wasn't off to impress anybody, and Vetinari was the last person in the Discworld to be dazzled by cheap flair, even Moist could see that. But, as he was dining with a powerful man, and powerful men deserved a measure of respect especially in a setting so intimate and casual as a dinner table, Moist honestly felt it his duty to at least satisfy all expectations of his current _honest_ image, that of Master of the Royal Mint and Postmaster General. So he donned a suit that was by all accounts a somber black, a black bordering in funereal if it were not for the fine, midnight-blue lacework on the turned-down cuffs and collar that made the whole ensemble an altogether sleek black affair. He had found the lacework funny and a tad too fancy even for him when the tailor first proposed it, but then when the tailor threatened that it was all about the person who carried it off, Moist felt it no less than a personal failing if he did not accept the challenge. And so he purchased the suit, to the tailor's satisfaction and his secret regret, and he had unhappily stuck it in the back of his closet until tonight.

When he emerged from his private quarters, Gladys looked up from her work and, unexpectedly, gave him a compliment.

"You Cut A Fine Figure In That Suit, I Must Say, Mr. Lipwig."

Moist fought the blush that he belatedly felt was ridiculous and unwarranted for a comment from a golem. But then, that part in the back of his mind that was filled to choking with smoke and spoke with the voice of one Miss Adora Belle Dearheart, kicked his cerebellum with a distinctly stilletoed heel for the prejudicial thought. Moist sighed.

"Good night, Gladys. Please don't wait up for me."

"All Right, Sir. A Good Night To You, Too."

Moist headed down and sure as promised, Vetinari's black coach stood waiting at the entrance of the bank at promptly seven o'clock. The coachman held the door open for him, and when he stepped in he was surprised to find himself alone. It was the first time he had ridden Lord Vetinari's private coach by himself, and it was an astoundingly dull experience, he had to admit, without the ominous presence of the Patrician that seemed to fill the carriage, or any space he occupied bearing relatively four corners, as a matter of fact. It was entirely in an impenetrable sort of black that even the lamps couldn't dull, and it surrounded him like a coffin. Moist was okay with dark, cramped spaces; one couldn't hope to live the kind of life he led without a friendly agreement with tight places that presented him with a unique position of getting out of them. But the inside of Vetinari's carriage was a different animal altogether; uncomfortable at best, and washed of any personality whatsoever at the very least.

Moist wondered what proper attitude to adopt for the upcoming dinner with the Patrician. He had only experienced Lord Vetinari up close and personal in a very different way, a way that only the damned and desperate ever get to appreciate, a way that involved angels and madmen. The dinner would be a first for him. It tempted one to think, 'What could Lord Vetinari be thinking to invite me to dinner? What sort of impossible task does he have up his sleeve for me that he had to give it to me decently, which is to say through duplicity, rather than in a straight-forward fashion as in a show of force, such as offered by an alternative of walking through a door into a pit of spikes?' But then, Moist thought, throat gone dry with worry, _that way lies madness_.

The coach arrived at the palace without incident. Moist was met at the courtyard by Mr. Drumknott, the Patrician's quiet, efficient secretary. Drumknott wasn't a person who inadvertently struck one's curiosity, an admirable trait in Moist's opinion, and in fact he did try to be as inconspicuous as possible despite having to walk with Moist down the corridors that led to the Oblong Office. Having noticed this, Moist couldn't resist exercising a bit of his so-called people skills to upset the silence, which to Moist's irritation had hung around even after he got off the Patrician's carriage.

"Do you have quarters in the palace, Mr. Drumknott?"

The question caught the man off-guard. The curious thing was, Moist knew this only because he knew what to look for. The man had jerked a shoulder, almost imperceptibly, and Moist wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't paid attention at the right moment.

"Yes, I do," came the reply, so soft as to be almost a whisper.

"Must be hard working for a ty...er, for the Patrician, eh?" said Moist, wincing inwardly at his near-fatal slip. He watched Drumknott closely for any sign that he was caught. Vetinari was known to hang men for less...cheek.

Drumknott looked at him and gave him a wry grin. A totally unexpected reaction. And then he shrugged, and said, "It's in the job description." Which meant, _he expected as much, and never hoped for otherwise. _Whatever this placid, stoic creature may be, for the Patrician's de facto yes-man, he didn't lack for intellect or ambition, but Moist was convinced that what surely qualified Mr. Drumknott for the job was his ability to appreciate humor, despite all the grimness of being the man what he had to be.

The rest of their walk was conducted in a much more comfortable silence, and Moist didn't mind it at all. Drumknott led him to the foyer in front of the Oblong Office, where he was told in very polite terms to wait while he was being announced to the Patrician. And then Drumknott went through a different door that Moist concluded could not lead to the Oblong Office itself, and thus he hypothesized must lead to the Patrician's private dining room, whereupon Drumknott returned via the same door and confirmed his suspicions when he said Lord Vetinari will now receive him for dinner.

"Good evening, Mr. Lipwig," the Patrician's greeting was warm, convivial. _No_, Moist revised, it was _deceptively_ warm, _convincingly_ convivial.

"Good evening, Lord Vetinari," said Moist. He debated making a leg, as he didn't know how to conduct himself in the abode of a tyrant, but decided against it at the last minute.

Vetinari seemed to notice. What he noticed exactly was beyond Moist's comprehension. However, he had an eyebrow raised slightly, almost mockingly. For one panicked moment, Moist was at a total loss. Was there something on his face? Maybe he ought to make a leg after all? His damn nerves were getting in the way of his wits, and he didn't know why he didn't feel like himself, which was to say, he felt too much like himself that was the vulnerable, unmasked scallywag from Uberwald and any minute now he just might start squirming like a red-eared fool caught with his hands in the pie.

"Do sit down, Mr. Lipwig. I'm sure the food will serve very well to calm your nerves." The tone was inviting, almost friendly. It carried no hint of mockery, much to Moist's head's distress. A part of him thought that he was very well nearing a complete breakdown in front of the tyrant of this city. It was a disconcerting thought.

"You are looking very pale, Mr. Lipwig," Vetinari said, as Moist forced himself to sit across from the Patrician, where the only other place setting was to be found. The table was rather small, a simple thing of rosewood in solid lines built by a craftsman who was careful with his work if not too imaginative. It could seat eight people comfortably, and currently Vetinari occupied one end of it, with him at the other.

Moist tried to give a decent answer, which was to say his mind worked in a frenzy to recall some suitable dinner-type conversation that was fancier than "Please pass the salt, Tom."

"Oh, um," he replied, a little unsteadily, "it was a hard day at the office summat, and I am used to getting an early dinner from Aimsbury."

"I see," said Vetinari, and his tone did the rest of making sure that he saw entirely through Moist's boorish, unmannered speech.

Moist wanted to smack himself in the forehead for the unintentional slant, but instead he said, "No, sorry, that went out wrong. I really appreciate your gracious invitation, Lord Venitari—"

"Havelock," the Patrician corrected, sounding too casual. He gestured off-handedly to the table before them. "I'd rather not deal with formalities in such a setting, if you don't mind."

"Um," started Moist. 'Um' had grown from a mildly dull syllable to a moderately interesting word. Recently, it was being associated to that long ago great civilization that was known for the one and only invention: the golem. But as a conversational piece, 'um' lacked flair. It lacked spark. It was downright boring. And so Moist's mouth, sensing the lack of speech to fill the dull void of an uncomfortable silence, rose to the occassion. It meant well, really.

"I appreciate your generosity, sir, in extending this informality to me, but I'm afraid it would be a tragedy and a crime if I were to oblige people to address me by my given name. Why, it would be like giving a rude offense in exchange for a polite gift. I could never impose it on you."

Against all of Moist's expectations, this made Vetinari laugh. The Patrician actually laughed! And it was the first time that Moist ever heard it, meaning it was the first ever laugh from Lord Vetinari that reached his ears without a promise of some unpleasantness lurking under the rich baritone.

"Very well," said Lord Vetinari, and he gave Moist a curious look, "I'll forgive you, this time, _Moist_." And here he emphasized the name; with Vetinari, it sounded a tad crisp, not as slick or slimy as it sounded in most other tongues. Moist fancied that with Spike, his name rolled off her lips like grainy smoke, and it was that, among other little things, that endeared her to him.

"I beg your pardon, Havelock," Moist tried the name on his lips; it didn't feel that bad, although on instinct his nerves did frazzle just a bit. "for not being able to start off on the right foot. I'll try not to make a fool of myself, erm, too much."

"Indeed," came Vetinari's reply. It was the same word he used on the guild leaders and the toe-kissing mongrels who entered the Oblong Office with heated demands and challenges and left, rather in a daze, properly tamed and humbled. But it sounded different, somehow, right now over the dinner table, although Moist couldn't quite pinpoint what exactly was different about how Lord Vetinari—Havelock, rather—said it.

Moist mulled over this thought while chewing his way through the wonderfully tender veal steak on his plate. Not to look down on Aimsbury's cuisine, or what passed for it, but the veal steak was clearly superior to anything that had gone through Moist's palate in his whole lifetime, and even the one before he was hanged. His thoughts kept him quite busy, during those moments when it was not occupied with the matter of chewing, which, a recent pole in the _Times _declared occupied a full 100 of the average individual's attention if he didn't want to choke on that fishbone and die horribly, and so he had no opportunity to fill the silence between him and Havelock, which was altogether not unpleasant.

Havelock resurrected the conversation with a timely, "Enjoying your meal?"

Moist swallowed. And then he swallowed some more. He had been preoccupied with a rather large piece of veal which required a whole lot of chewing. His throat ached momentarily with the strain of having to push down large lumps of the meat at one go. And then he said, "Of course, sir, um, Havelock. I've had nothing better in my life, my compliments to the cook."

Havelock nodded at this. Moist noticed that the Patrician had all but finished his meal. The plate was clean—too clean, in fact. It appeared that the rumors were true, Havelock Vetinari lived on bread alone.

Moist was glad he took a ham sandwich with his afternoon tea. Gladys had been kind enough as to oblige making him sandwiches again. Moist suspected that Spike had something to do with it, and Gladys wasn't very subtle in her hints about keeping him healthy and fit amidst all the stress of being a banker, what with Added Responsibilities in the Near Future, as One Might Expect, With A Family.

Moist hadn't even thought that far yet. He wasn't even entirely won over to the whole marriage thing yet.

Oh, but what was he thinking? He should be happy! He should be proud! Getting a woman such as the likes of Adora Belle Dearheart to tie the knot with him was no ordinary feat and certainly not for the weak of heart, and he had done it. He should be thrilled about the wedding.

The only thing that disappointed Moist about the whole affair was the fact that he felt he wasn't happy enough, that he wasn't thrilled enough, to suit the occasion. It had left him sleepless many a night. It worried him a lot, so much so that people around him started to worry, too; hence, Gladys making sandwiches for him again, for example. On the nights he was weary enough to want sleep, he always had these dreams, too. He would dream he was a pigeon, free and flying over Ankh-Morpork, the city that he grew to love, that he grew to respect, and that in turn returned his affections in various odd ways that were not all of the time involving an assassin's arrow or the Tanty. Every time, he flew the same route. Over the Post Office with its newly-installed statues of gods and goddesses on the roof, and then over the Royal Bank with its marble columns and the deep shadows it cast over the neighboring buildings, and then on to the Palace, where he was sure he saw the Patrician looking up at him from a window in the Oblong Office. And then, with a loud bang, there'd be pain in his chest and he'd be falling, falling, and then he'd see Spike, his dear Spike, seizing him from the sky and shackling him in fine nearly-gold chains, and her eyes would glow like a golem's.

"It seems you've got a lot on your mind, Moist," came Havelock's voice, like thunder crashing in the night. With it, Moist shook himself out of his reverie. In a flash, his eyes darted quickly from left to right, reacquainting himself with the place as if he had been momentarily lost, and then his gaze drifted to Havelock and locked with the Patrician's eyes with surprise, and not a little embarassment.

"I'm sorry, I seemed to have wandered off in my head," said Moist. "On account of its Friday, sir, um, Havelock, I may have slipped into the weekend mood a tad early." He knocked his head with a knuckle for emphasis.

"The 'weekend mood', you say? Or is it wedding jitters?" Havelock retorted, in a teasingly light voice.

Moist shrugged and smiled one of his most guileless smiles. Later, he would attest that it came naturally and was not in any way at all deliberate. Havelock would have to agree, of course, although he had known it from the start.

Dinner ended abruptly when Moist finally finished his veal. The Patrician suggested that they repair to the sitting room for some wine and, to Moist's surprise, to have some time with Mr. Fusspot.

Moist would be the last man to admit that he missed the mutt. He had genuine affection for the dog, sure, and he still missed him every morning when he expected to get slobbered but didn't and every time he ate lunch, when usually Mr. Fusspot would provide a fine entertainment wrestling with his special toffee pudding. But he was the Patrician's lapdog now, and of course there was nothing one could do about it but shrug and go on with one's life. Besides, what with all the _Times _had to say about it, it wasn't hard to see that Mr. Fusspot rather liked Lord Vetinari very much, and enjoyed a more princely accomodation and a certainly higher calibre of security for his person, as well the 51 shares of the bank that he represented. It was true that sometimes Moist still envied the fact that Mr. Fusspot did not so much as mind feeding off Lord Vetinari's hand, in a literal sense at the least, but it was no real issue of pride to him. Moist had done his duty by Mr. Fusspot, and he had done it well and good.

Which is not to say that his heart veritably went to mush when Mr. Fusspot ran up to him in that cute little way with his stubby legs and wide, open face and jumped onto his lap to give him a wet, slobbering doggy kiss.

"I am keenly aware that you and Mr. Fusspot have yet to have a proper…parting, I should say, for lack of a better term. For the dog's sake, I would at least have you spend some time with him now, with all due respect to your care and affection for him in the past month."

"That's very kind of you, Havelock," Moist said, laughter bubbling up from his throat as Mr. Fusspot continued to lick his face like it was the biggest wad of toffee in the room. "Isn't he now, Mr. Fusspot?" he asked, and the dog assured him it was so with a jolly little "Woof!"

Moist didn't notice Havelock approach from behind until a squeak startled him and made Mr. Fusspot go mad with excitement and wag his pudgy little tail like it was on fire. Moist didn't have to turn around to know it was a squeaky toy, and as Vetinari reached out over his shoulder to have Mr. Fusspot seize it in his eager jaws, Moist recognized the rubber doggy bone that was his favorite toy not so long ago, before the…erm…vibrating object of suspicious manufacture occupied his attentions.

Speaking of which, where…?

"I had discreetly removed it from his person not a week ago, and have since convinced him that there are other…less controversial…toys at his disposal."

"Heh, good of you to manage it," Moist said, as one dog-keeper to another, "I had a bloody hard time getting it away from him, and I never did succeed."

"It is all a matter of timing," said Havelock, enigmatically. He reached over Moist's shoulder to pat Mr. Fusspot's head. The little dog was chewing happily at the toy bone, which squeaked merry hell in his jaws.

"So," Moist continued, having felt that the night, with the addition of Mr. Fusspot, was now getting to exceed 'endurable' as to even be considered 'pleasant', "where do you keep his doggie biscuits? And is it too late for a walkie?"

"Oh, it's never too late for either," Havelock said, a smile teasing its way from out his lips.

Moist got home that night at a very late hour, almost unrespectable even. He hadn't been out climbing walls this time though, or breaking and entering into establishments of his own command, such as the Royal Bank. The night had gone from terribly uncomfortable to unexpectedly pleasant to surprisingly enjoyable, what with it ending with two grown men laughing at a dog's old tricks, and Mr. Fusspot had many, when provided with his special toffee pudding. Moist had promised to have Aimsbury deliver the recipe to Havelock's cooks, and Havelock had insisted that another dinner in the very near future would be conducive to a Mr. Fusspot's health and demeanor. He had confided to Moist that the dog had not displayed such a willful state of abandon to doggie bliss before, and it was certainly entertaining to watch.

For once, Moist thought, he had no pressing need to seek the thrill of dangerous adventures. Something about spending a night with a dog and a tyrant laid something in his chest to rest. He rather thought that there wouldn't be any horrible dreams tonight either, and Anoia help him, he wouldn't be wrong. He turned the key in the lock to the bank's front doors and entered with a much lighter heart than when he'd left.


End file.
